


doing it wrong for far too long

by cursingcursive (queenradi)



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Don't worry, M/M, Modern AU, None of them die, there are a lot of cats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 18:06:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7474437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenradi/pseuds/cursingcursive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the things for Grantaire to be passionate about, it ends up being cats. Enjolras is a little surprised. And a little enamored. It's not a big deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	doing it wrong for far too long

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kathlyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathlyn/gifts).



> a birthday present for my best friend [marcie](http://cinderidiot.tumblr.com/) . how's this for a birthday tradition? love you. 
> 
> also: while I do know a fair amount about cats and how to properly parent one, please please don't use anything in this fic as a reference point for taking care of a cat, specifically for providing minor medical treatment for a feline. my knowledge is narrow and sketchy and should not be applied to real-life cat situations. please consult an actual professional of you find yourself in a situation with a kitty similar to the situations in this fic.

The thing about Grantaire is that, in the five or so years that Enjolras has known him, his participation in anything remotely related to Les Amis and everything associated has been limited to bringing donuts to meetings and occasionally drawing or designing fliers. He never pitches ideas, never joins them at rallies or functions. When he throws his two cents in at meetings it’s usually to rip Enjolras’s preliminary plan to shreds and leave someone else to patch up the holes. For five years, Grantaire’s presence has been limited to whatever he can get away with without actually harming the wellbeing of the group or its members. 

Which is why Enjolras is completely thrown for a loop when Grantaire comes to the first meeting of the summer and has an  _ idea. _

Not only an  _ idea _ ; he has a  _ plan _ . 

“You want to  _ what _ ?” Enjolras asks. He’s a little dumbfounded. The whole room is quiet— they’re in Bahorel’s basement because the Musain Cafe is closed for an inspection. The dozen or so group members are all scattered over beanbag chairs and sofas, clutching bowls of chips and cans of soda. Everyone’s looking between Grantaire, who’s lounging in an armchair, and Enjolras, who’s perched on the brick ledge of the fireplace on the other side of the room. 

“What?” Grantaire says defensively. 

“I—” Enjolras stops himself. Combeferre is looking at Grantaire with the look in his eyes that means he’s working out the logistics of everything the other man just proposed. Jehan is practically bouncing with excitement, and Courfeyrac is positively beaming. The rest of the group shares the general positive reaction, but Enjolras is still hung up on the fact that  _ Grantaire planned this.  _

“Is there a problem?” Grantaire asks coldly. “I was under the impression that July was an open month as far as Amis functions and fundraisers went, so it can’t be a scheduling issue.” He’s talking directly to Enjolras, bypassing everyone else completely. How typical. 

Enjolras’s ears burn.

“There’s no problem,” he says slowly, “I just—” 

“I’ve already talked to the shelter,” Grantaire continues. “They’re all for it, if we can get a venue and a crowd. Which shouldn’t be hard, because who doesn’t like kittens?” He’s smirking. What an asshole. 

“Well then,” Enjolras starts. His brain is stuttering over itself like a needle on a record player that keeps skipping on the wrong groove in the vinyl. All of his words trip over themselves on their way to his mouth. Grantaire’s eyes are narrowed, his mouth sharpening into that smirk that means he’s about to go off on a tangent that could take forever and leave everyone bruised and raw. 

Combeferre cuts in. “Time to vote, then,” he says loudly. Enjolras snaps his mouth shut and looks pointedly away from Grantaire. “All those in favor of hosting a cat adoption fair and shelter fundraiser for this month’s project, raise your hand.” 

Every hand goes up. Ferre looks to Enjolras, who nods. He likes cats as much as he doesn’t like Grantaire. 

“It’s decided,” Ferre says with finality. “Time to start brainstorming.” 

And with that, the meeting kicks into high gear. Jobs are assigned, websites googled, potential sponsors scribbled down, concept art for posters and fliers sketched on napkins. Grantaire fits seamlessly in the middle of it all, talking and laughing and dutifully scratching down discussion notes in a notebook that comes out of nowhere. 

Enjolras stays frozen on the fireplace ledge. He isn’t sure if this is real; if it’s a nightmare or a dream come true. Either way, he’s worried that if he moves too quickly or speaks too loudly it’ll all vanish in a puff of smoke and Grantaire’s inebriated laughter. 

Courf hands him an unopened can of Coke. He’s grinning, eyes all squinty and happy behind his glasses. “Remember when I said he’d surprise you?” he asks. 

Enjolras takes the Coke but doesn’t open it. “You mean when Jehan and Bahorel dragged him to the first meeting and all he did was mock me? Yeah, I remember.” Not much has changed since then. 

Well, until now. 

A laugh bubbles out of Courf. Enjolras sees Ferre turn towards the sound subconsciously, and he hates them both for a split second. “I was right, wasn’t I? You look pretty surprised now.” 

How could he not be? How long has Grantaire been sitting on this idea? Why did it take five years for him to decide that Les Amis was something more than a group to get drunk with? 

Enjolras sighs. “Is there anything I can do?” 

Courf looks back at the group circled in the middle of the basement, Grantaire at the heart of it. “I’m pretty sure we could use you on the phones, as usual. Calling venues and sponsors. You’re the best at that.” 

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. “I suppose.” 

 

+

 

Two weeks later, Les Amis and volunteers from the city cat shelter are pitching tents, setting up tables, and constructing play pens and tiny plastic fences all through the local park. It’s creeping up on noon, which is when the event is due to begin, and already Enjolras has had to make four emergency calls; their park permit was missing a signature, the refreshments had been misplaced somewhere fifteen miles away, a frisbee tournament tried to stake a claim on the same patch of grass, and the signs advertising the cat adoption fair had no less than three typos. 

He’s a little frazzled. 

Which is fine, because on a list of character traits under Enjolras’s name, “frazzled” would be high up, right after “ambitious” and “verbose”. “Frazzled” is his natural state of being. 

Half an hour before the event is supposed to be up and running, Enjolras spins away from one of the vendor stalls (it sells homemade cat toys and is run by a fifteen year old girl and she has more business know-how than most adults and Enjolras is gladly impressed) and nearly runs face-first into Grantaire. 

A frantic air crackles from him. His dark hair is wild and uncontained by his purple beanie; he’s holding a clipboard, such an anti-Grantaire action that rectifies itself when Enjolras sees it’s entirely covered in cat doodles instead of notes; and he grabs Enjolras’s arm like he’s drowning and it’ll save him. 

This is more than “frazzled”. This is “stressed beyond comprehension” and it’s a color Enjolras has never seen on Grantaire. He doesn’t wear it very well. 

“What’s wrong?” Enjolras asks. Volunteers and Les Amis members are scattered all over, so if Grantaire is coming to him specifically, it must be a big deal. 

“We have a problem.” Grantaire shakes Enjolras by the arm a little. 

“Okay, okay, calm down.” Enjolras gently pries Grantaire’s fingers from his bicep. “What can I do?” 

“One of the vans from the shelter got here early,” Grantaire says quickly, “and we had nowhere for the cat crates to go, because we haven’t set up the pens or the cages yet, so we just put them under the main tent for now, and—”

“Grantaire, slow down.” Enjolras puts his hands up in what he hopes is a calming gesture. Grantaire looks ready to shake right out of his skin. “What happened?” 

“A few of the cats got out,” Grantaire blurts. “Not kittens,  _ cats _ . Adult ones. Fast ones. Everyone else is either setting up pens or stalls and the shelter volunteers are all  _ at the shelter _ getting the rest of the cats and—” 

“Okay, alright,” Enjolras says quickly. He understands Grantaire’s panic, now. “How many cats?” 

“Five.” 

“Oh.” He looks around frantically; there are a dozen tents and stalls popped up all over this section of the park. To the left is a playground with hoards of children, and to the right is a little thatch of trees and trails. “Over there?” he suggests, pointing to the trees. 

“Yes,” Grantaire says, half relieved, half more stressed than before. 

“Let’s go.” Enjolras sets a brisk pace for the trees.

The little wood isn’t very big, but cats are sneaky creatures, and it’s only Grantaire and Enjolras, so it takes longer than either one of them hoped. 

Enjolras finds a tabby crouched under a blackberry bush and scrapes his arms reaching for her. She yowls loudly and tries to wriggle free, but he holds tight and carries her as quickly and gently as he can back to the tent full of crates. There’s a volunteer there waiting, and she takes the cat gratefully. 

When he goes back to the wood, Grantaire is cuddling an enormous black cat to his chest. The cat bumps his head to Grantaire’s chin and Grantaire coos at him, carrying him past Enjolras and to the tent. 

A white and grey cat found its way into the lower branches of an oak tree. Enjolras hoists himself onto a nearby bough and gently pries the cat into his arms. It hisses and scratches, bark hooked in his claws. Enjolras gets a nasty cut on his chest while carrying him back. 

Grantaire squats in the middle of the trail and clicks his tongue at an orange cat huddled by a fern three yards away. Enjolras watches, dabbing at the blood welling up from his minor wound, as the cat slowly sidles up to Grantaire. 

“There we go,” Grantaire hums gently. He strokes the cat’s head and back, then slides his hands carefully around her to scoop her up. She goes willingly, her tail flicking. 

“How did you do that?” Enjolras asks sharply. 

Grantaire smiles at him. He rubs his nose on the top of the cat’s head and she meows happily. “I like cats,” he says simply. He walks back down the trail, cat calmly in arms. Enjolras blinks. 

The last cat is a ratty old calico with a tear in her ear. She’s lounging on a large boulder just off the trail. When Enjolras quietly approaches, she leaps to her feet, back arching, tail puffing. A growl comes from her throat. 

Enjolras didn’t even know cats  _ could _ growl. He swallows his pride and tries to replicate Grantaire’s actions, clicking his tongue and offering his hand. The calico watches him with no change in her stance. 

He’s just resigned himself to more scratches and bite marks when Grantaire comes up behind him. 

“Apollo,” he laughs, “Stop it. Please. You’re embarrassing me.” 

Enjolras spins around. His ears are burning. “I was about to get her,” he says. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Sure. Do you know anything about cat body language?”

He doesn’t, but the current situation is fairly obvious. You can’t misinterpret a growl, as far as he knows. 

“I thought so.” Grantaire gently pushes him out of the underbrush and back onto the trail. “Allow me.” He creeps closer to the calico, his hand outstretched with the palm down. He’s speaking softly, but the words don’t reach Enjolras, just the sound. 

He watches, enraptured, as the calico slowly un-arches and un-puffs. Grantaire crouches beside her boulder so he’s shorter than she is, and his hand rests near her paws. He’s still making soft little noises. 

The cat suspiciously sniffs at Grantaire’s hand. He slowly unfurls his fingers, and then scratches her chin. She allows it, eyes narrowing. Her demeanor shifts visibly, and then Grantaire slowly scoops her up. He turns back to Enjolras, cat in arms, and grins. 

“Ta da,” he says quietly. 

“I don’t believe it,” Enjolras says. “This is witchcraft.” 

“Don’t be so close minded.” Grantaire winks at him and carries the cat down the trail. She watches Enjolras over Grantaire’s shoulder. He sees her claws flex into Grantaire’s tshirt and feels as though he’s been threatened. 

 

\+ 

 

The adoption fair goes well, after that. The main tents are set up with cages and pens for cats and kittens, and there are little booths for families who want to spend time with a cat one-on-one, under the supervision of a shelter volunteer. The vendors and stalls sell everything from cat toys and food to art to snacks and drinks, little hand-painted signs proclaiming “50% OF ALL PROCEEDS GO TO THE CAT SHELTER!” There are kids and families and couples and seniors everywhere, mingling with the cats and the purple-shirted volunteers. 

Grantaire is manning the elderly cat tent, where a dozen or so cats with greying fur and croaky meows and grumpy attitudes laze in the shade or rub up against his legs. Enjolras, on roaming duty, stops by with a glass of lemonade. 

“This is from Jehan,” he says, handing over the lemonade. 

“Thanks.” Grantaire takes a long sip. 

“Any progress?” Enjolras squats down to stroke an old tabby. She blinks at him, eyes milky with cataracts, and purrs wetly. Her fur is soft and he can feel the ridges on her skull. 

“Not really.” Grantaire settles down next to him. A black cat with a limp crawls into his lap. “Not many people like old cats. They’re faulty and often high-maintenance.” He shrugs. It’s not as offhand as Enjolras thinks he wanted it to be. 

“Well.” Enjolras runs his hand down the tabby’s spine. She arches and purrs louder. “Jehan told me that most of the kittens got adopted. About ten adults were scooped up.”

A smile plays over Grantaire’s mouth. “That’s good.” 

Enjolras chews the inside of his lip. “Can I ask you something?”  

“Can I stop you?” 

Enjolras huffs.

“Yes, God. I’m teasing.” 

He huffs again. The tabby creaks her way into his lap and he gently cradles her. Her chest vibrates against his hand with her purrs. “Why did you suggest this? It’s a great idea,” he scrambles to add, “I’m just wondering, you know. Why.” 

Grantaire shrugs. Another cat meanders over the grass and flops in front of them, paws flopped over and tail flicking. “I volunteer at the shelter,” he explains, rubbing the new cat’s belly, “and I figured why not?” 

It should have been obvious. None of the Les Amis except Grantaire gets to handle the cats without a shelter volunteer present, and he’s so good with cats— specifically these ones. 

“I’m pleasantly surprised,” Enjolras says. 

“Thanks.” 

Enjolras rubs one finger over the tabby’s paw. “What’s her name?” 

Grantaire eyes the cat in Enjolras’s lap for no more than two seconds before saying, with certainty, “That’s Agatha. She’s around eleven or twelve. Almost blind. A sweetheart, as you can tell.” He smiles and reaches to pet her ears. “Actually very easy to take care of, because all she wants is ear scratches and the leftovers from the tuna can.” 

Despite himself, Enjolras is endeared. He watches Grantaire pet the older cats, cooing and talking to them, folding some into his lap and tossing little toys for others. They all eventually come to him, for a moment or longer, like he’s got catnip in his clothes or something. 

The old tabby, Agatha, doesn’t move from Enjolras’s lap. She rubs her cheek on his jeans and flexes her claws against his arm. When he pets her chin her eyes narrow shut and something in Enjolras’s chest involuntarily starts squealing. 

“Can I adopt her?” he asks after a few long minutes. His break is almost over, he knows, and if he doesn’t ask now he never will. 

Grantaire raises one eyebrow at him. “Really?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re not just saying that because I’m sad no one likes an old cat?” 

“No!” 

“You actually want to love and care for this ancient creature?”

“Yes, Grantaire—” 

“You won’t change your mind in a week when you have to clean the litter box?” 

Enjolras groans. “Grantaire, can I adopt the cat or not?” When he doesn’t get an answer, only a stern glare, he says, “Fine. I promise I’ll love Agatha and care for her until her dying day. She’ll be the most happy senior cat in the city.” 

The glare intensifies.

“The  _ world. _ ” 

Grantaire’s face transforms. He grins widely. “Wonderful!” He gently pushes the cats from his lap and stands up. Papers appear out of nowhere, a file is produced from a box outside the pen, and he’s calling for someone named Francine. 

A middle aged woman wearing the purple volunteer shirt and a badge that marks her an employee of the shelter appears in the tent. “Yes?” 

“We have an adoption!” Grantaire says proudly. He gestures to Enjolras, still on the ground with Agatha snoozing in his lap. “Enjolras here would like to become Agatha’s forever home.” 

“That’s great!” Francine climbs into the pen, accepts the paperwork from Enjolras, and begins to help him figure everything out. Grantaire settles next to them, smiling and humming to himself. 

Enjolras only half pays attention to Francine; he signs where he must, answers questions appropriately. But the rest of his focus is split between his new cat in his lap, purring contentedly, and Grantaire, at ease and in his element in a way Enjolras has never seen before. 

How strange that he’s known Grantaire for five years, yet this is the first time he’s actually  _ known _ him. 

 

+

 

A month later, Enjolras is in the middle of leading another Les Amis meeting when his eyes snag on Grantaire. From his spot standing on a chair by the bar he can see almost everything, and he doesn’t miss the way Grantaire keeps peering under the table, his hands occupied, utterly distracted. 

For a split second, Enjolras fears that Grantaire is doing unspeakable things under that table. He stops talking, jaw falling open, ready to call Grantaire out, when he hears it. Something  _ meows _ . Very softly. The only reason he can hear it is because the whole damn cafe was quietly listening to him, and now that he’s standing there like an idiot the quietest sounds are amplified. 

Grantaire looks at him. Another  _ meow _ . 

“What the hell,” Enjolras says loudly. He’s forgotten what he was even saying, before this. All of his focus is now on Grantaire and, apparently, the cat he smuggled into their meeting. 

“What?” Grantaire says defensively. His hands are still under the table. There’s a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. “Something wrong?”

The whole of the cafe is watching this exchange. Enjolras is hyper-aware of their gazes as he climbs down from his chair. “Do you have a  _ cat _ ?” he says. 

“No.” An incriminating  _ mew _ emanates from Grantaire’s lap. A few people chuckle. “Maybe,” Grantaire concedes. 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. All around him, Jehan and Cosette and Marius are getting starry-eyed at the idea of a cat in their midst. He can see that everyone else isn’t too far behind. This meeting is officially derailed. 

“Let’s see it, then,” he sighs. 

Jehan squeals. 

Grantaire says sheepishly, “It’s a  _ them _ , actually,” and pulls a shoebox from his lap. A little pink nose pokes over the edge, followed by fuzzy grey ears, and then another head appears next to it, and suddenly Enjolras is looking at three tiny kittens crawling all over each other, lumps of cuteness that everyone fawns over in a heartbeat. 

“Where did they come from!” Jehan exclaims. He’s already got the smallest one cupped to his cheek. 

“I found them near my apartment on my way over,” Grantaire says. 

“They’re so sweet!” Eponine and Cosette are huddled over another kitten, who’s batting at Eponine’s dangling braids. 

“What are you going to do with them?” Ferre asks. He places the third kitten on Courf’s head and snickers when Courf freezes up. 

“I was hoping you guys would help,” Grantaire asks. He sounds sheepish. “I can’t keep them, and I know the shelter is stretched thin. They’re old enough to adopt; we just have to get them shots and find them homes.” 

Enjolras startles when Grantaire says “we”. “We?” he echoes. “Did you just say ‘we’?” 

Grantaire meets his eyes, dark brown on light brown, gaze held over the bent and cooing heads of the rest of the group. “Yeah. Unless you don’t want to help.” 

“I didn’t say that.” Enjolras’s ears heat up. He plucks the kitten on Courf’s head into his hands right as it’s about to become well acquainted with gravity. The creature is warm and fragile in his hands, more purrs than bone. Its eyes are big and blue. “What can we do to help?” He stresses the “we.” 

Grantaire smiles. “It’ll cost about a hundred and fifty dollars for shots and getting them fixed. Do you think we could raise that much and then find them families?” 

The question is directed to the whole group, but Enjolras still answers. “I don’t see why not.” He looks around at them all. “Does anyone protest switching the topic of this week’s meeting?” 

Bahorel snorts loudly. He’s got a kitten on one of his shoulders. “Kittens are a hell of a lot better than voters’ rights.” 

Normally Enjolras would argue, but they can come back to voters’ rights next week. It was just going to end in petitions, anyway. “Alright. Time to brainstorm.” 

From the bar, Musichetta yells, “Grantaire, I  _ know _ you didn’t sneak kittens into my cafe without offering me some cuddles.” 

Grantaire looks appropriately abashed and begins collecting the kittens. “I’ll be right back.” He takes the one from Bahorel and the one from Cosette and Eponine and deposits them in the box. “Start without me, never fear.” He comes up to Enjolras, and motions with his chin for him to put the kitten away. 

Enjolras does, his hand lingering in the box to stroke the kitten on its little pink nose. “How do you do this?” he muses offhandedly. 

“What?” Grantaire shifts the box in his arms. One of the kittens mewl and tips over on its side. There’s a baby blue blanket lining the cardboard, and a little catnip toy tossed in the corner. 

“Just.” Enjolras pauses. “I don’t know. The cat thing.” 

“Cat thing?” Grantaire smirks. 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and steps to the side. “Chetta’s going to get mad.” 

“Nah. No one can get mad when there’s kittens.” Grantaire hip checks him gently on his way past, and takes the kittens to the bar. 

The group is already coming up with ideas for fundraising and potential homes, and by the time Enjolras has wrangled his heartbeat back down to reasonable levels, they’re planning a sort of rummage sale. The proceeds, apparently, are going to the kittens’ shots and surgeries, and then the cat shelter. 

Enjolras marvels silently at how quickly Grantaire threw them into action. People really will do anything for cute little animals, he thinks. 

 

\+ 

 

One of the kittens, the all white one with big blue eyes, doesn’t get adopted at the rummage sale. Courf claims him immediately, names him Alabaster Jones for reasons unknown and tells Ferre that he was just replaced by a kitten. Enjolras snickers behind Ferre’s back and catches Grantaire watching them all with a smile. 

Alabaster Jones quickly becomes the new mascot of Les Amis, dethroning Bahorel. Cosette makes him a sparkly collar, and Eponine knits a tiny sweater faster than anyone can blink. Courf does the unthinkable and trains him to wear a harness and leash. He comes to meetings and toddles in the unsteady way of kittens across the tables. 

“I can’t believe I’m a father,” Ferre laments to Enjolras at the end of the fourth meeting with Alabaster Jones present. “He sleeps on the pillow between me and Courf,  _ every night _ . Courf takes him in the car, outside to get the mail, everywhere. Yesterday, I was shopping for whipped cream and strawberries and bought twelve cat toys and a cat bed.” He drops his head in his hands. 

Enjolras laughs. “Want to hear a secret?”

Ferre groans. Either he agreed, or he didn’t hear Enjolras. Enjolras goes with the former. 

“For the first week I had Agatha, I tried to keep her from jumping on the table while I ate. Now I put her up there myself and feed her scraps on her own little plate.” 

Ferre looks up at him. “You’re worse than I am.” 

Enjolras shrugs. “She’s old. I humor her.” 

“She’s a  _ cat _ , Enj.” 

“So?” 

Ferre laughs. “I see your point.” He turns to watch Courf and Jehan play with Alabaster Jones in the corner booth. Musichetta brought them a little saucer of tuna and a cat toy she started keeping behind the bar just for this. The kitten is wearing a pink sweater with paw prints all over it. Ferre visibly melts at the sight. 

“Ew,” Enjolras says offhandedly. 

“Shut up.” Ferre turns back, his skin flushed on his cheekbones. “If I’m whipped by Courf for letting him get a cat, you’re just as whipped by Grantaire for letting him bring the cats in the first place.” 

If he’d been drinking anything, Enjolras would have choked. As it is, he manages to sputter indignantly, “ _ What are you talking about. _ ” 

Ferre snickers. “If anyone else had tried to bring a box of kittens to a meeting, you would have plowed on like nothing happened. But because it’s Grantaire, you just  _ had _ to stop and make big deal and—”

“I did not  _ make a big deal _ !” His heart is dashing madly from one side of his chest to the other. “The guy shows up with kittens and I’m supposed to say ‘no we won’t help you find homes for these helpless, innocent creatures’?” 

“I’m just saying, anyone else and it would have waited until after you finished discussing voters’ rights.” 

It’s a good point, but Enjolras refuses to acknowledge it. “Consider that Agatha has softened my heart in areas like this.” 

Ferre shrugs. “Maybe so. But why did you adopt Agatha in the first place?” 

Enjolras has to consciously close his mouth after Ferre leaves the bar. He watches Ferre and Courf nuzzle their noses together in that disgustingly cute way of theirs, and then they say goodbye to Jehan and Courf scoops up Alabaster Jones and they’re leaving the Musain and Enjolras thinks:  _ shit _ . He also thinks  _ I have to buy more cat treats for Agatha _ but those thoughts are connected, anyway. 

 

\+ 

 

At the end of August for the last three years, Les Amis has hosted a back to school fundraiser to help collect school supplies for underprivileged kids. This year they’ve gotten some local artists to sell their work in an auction, all proceeds to the cause. It’s something they’ve done before, for other events, but the thing that makes this unique, at least to Enjolras, is that Grantaire orchestrated it. 

The meeting to begin planning the annual fundraiser started as it always did: with a whiteboard in Ferre and Courf’s living room, charts and lists of sponsors and donors littered all over the room, ideas being thrown out and discarded and written down, statistics and goals recorded. The whole of Les Amis was involved, making the living room seem smaller than it was, and the added presence of Alabaster Jones made the mood lighter and more bearable than usual. 

Grantaire, usually silent and watchful for these meetings, spoke up. “Art auction,” he said simply. 

Enjolras blinked. 

Ferre beamed. 

Jehan and Feuilly instantly began rattling off artists they knew would be interested. Grantaire volunteered to make some larger pieces, maybe even a sculpture if he had the time, and the idea spun away and into motion before Enjolras had the chance to catch it. 

It was always like that, with Grantaire. 

Now, they’re an hour away from the auction. Enjolras is running around their rented venue, a gallery downtown, clipboard in hand, organizing artists and tables and directing the caterers and other members of Les Amis. 

Grantaire’s running around, too, the unofficial Head Artist or something like that. Enjolras is dimly aware of him rearranging paintings and lights and turning sculptures a little to the left and politely suggesting that maybe the realist pieces and the impressionist pieces don’t go on the same wall? 

It’s like the shelter fundraiser all over again. Enjolras has his usual role to play, the frazzled organizer running around and politely barking orders. And then there’s Grantaire; who usually doesn’t even show up to the events, and now he’s like another Enjolras, running on black coffee and one bite of scone that Joly had forced on him before they’d reached the gallery. 

Enjolras snags a muffin from a snack table and marches over to Grantaire. The other man is carefully adjusting a canvas with paint spattered artfully over it. He doesn’t turn when Enjolras approaches. 

“Hey.” Enjolras taps his shoulder. “Grantaire, you have to eat something.” 

“What? Oh.” Grantaire turns and sees the muffin. The stressed lines in his face smooth out for a moment. “Thanks, Apollo.” He takes the muffin with a smile, and bites off a huge chunk of it. Some crumbs catch in the scruff of his beard. 

“How are you feeling?” Enjolras asks. 

“Oh, I’m great,” Grantaire says around the muffin. His eyes are sparkling. It might just be the gallery lights, but Enjolras allows himself a second to believe that it’s Grantaire feeling more than whatever drives him to drinking and heckling Enjolras. “Is this what it’s always like? Being active and—” He takes another bite of muffin— “a good samaritan?” 

Enjolras scratches the back of his neck. He isn’t sure how a conversation sprang up from this, but the next few hours are going to be chaos. He’ll take this little moment of peace before it bursts. “Most of the time. It’s not always successful fundraisers and adoption fairs, though.” 

Grantaire snorts around his muffin. “You forget,” he says solemnly. “I’ve had to bail Bahorel and Montparnasse out of jail three times after protests. I’ve seen you and Ferre with black eyes and bloody noses.” He wipes a crumb from the corner of his mouth, and the lines of his face are once again hard and set. “I’ve had to pull Eponine and Cosette and Jehan out of crowds before they could get—” He stops short. 

A sour feeling slides down the back of Enjolras’s throat. None of them could forget the hard side to this. He remembers those jail cells, those bloody noses, those court meetings and misdemeanors. He remembers grabbing Marius by the back of the neck and watching helplessly as Courf was arrested. He remembers losing Feuilly in a crowd and the pure, unfiltered panic that lasted the three hours it took to find him. 

He didn’t realize Grantaire remembered all that, as well. 

All he says is, “Oh,” but somehow it’s enough for Grantaire. 

“This is better, though,” he says smoothly. “Art is better than riots.” 

Enjolras squashes the instinctive  _ “It’s not a riot, just a failed revolution” _ because he can see, miraculously, that Grantaire isn’t hiding his emotions as well as he usually does. And right now, Enjolras sees hurt in his eyes. 

It’s a little like finally seeing the shape of a constellation after spending an hour trying to make sense of the stars. 

“Oh,” he says again, and then has the good sense to leave. 

 

+

 

“How’s Agatha doing?” 

Enjolras looks up from his laptop. He’s currently drafting up an email to the CEO of a company interested in partnering with Les Amis for another event, and he’s been working so long that his eyesight swims when he looks away from the screen. For a moment, Grantaire is a dark swirl in front of him. Then he blinks, and his eyesight focuses painfully, and Enjolras can see the red beanie over his messy curls, the tattered Guns n’ Roses tshirt, the ratty collection of handmade bracelets from Jehan and Cosette. 

Grantaire’s words click. 

“Agatha?” he asks. 

Grantaire nods. He’s sort of looming over Enjolras, and Enjolras can smell the thick scent of acrylic paint and coffee. Grantaire’s got his messenger bag slung over one shoulder. His hands are stained with paint. 

“She’s alright,” Enjolras says. “There’s this spot in my living room that gets nice sun around midday. She’s sort of claimed it as her own.” 

Grantaire smiles. It makes his eyes crinkle. “That’s good.” He sits down across from Enjolras, then, and pulls out a thick notebook and a pencil case. 

They’re in the Musain. The Les Amis meeting isn’t due to start for another couple of hours; Enjolras got off work early and came here to do his actual work, and he wonders why Grantaire is here with him. 

After a moment, Grantaire leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other. He props the notebook on his knee. His pencil taps three times and then he says, “Can I draw you?” 

Enjolras mistypes a word, backspaces, spells it properly. “Sorry?” 

“Can I draw you?” Grantaire repeats. His voice leaves no room for confusion. He also doesn’t look up from his notebook. “I’ve drawn everyone else in the group. It’s your turn, if you want.” 

A bubble of satisfaction forms in Enjolras’s chest, and then bursts just as quickly. “Well, if you’ve already drawn  _ everyone else _ ,” he says coldly. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Don’t be like that,” he says quietly. “I don’t draw someone without asking. I didn’t think you’d say yes before now.” 

Oh. Well, then. Enjolras watches his cursor blink. He can feel Grantaire watching him, his gaze heavy. His pencil doesn’t move, which must mean he’s being serious. If Enjolras says no, Grantaire won’t draw him. 

“Yes,” he says after a long moment. “But only if you tell me why you thought I’d say no, before now.” 

The answer comes quickly, and leaves no room for confusion, like the question did. Grantaire has thought long and hard about this, and he’s certain. “Because you hated me,” he says simply. 

Enjolras’s throat closes up. “Is that so?” He tries to make it sound light, but he’s not entirely sure it works. 

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s okay. I’ve come to terms with it. You don’t hate me now, do you?” 

Thinking back to the art auction, the adoptions of Alabaster Jones and Agatha, Enjolras knows that he doesn’t hate Grantaire. But did he ever? Hate is a strong word, and he’s sure he wouldn’t apply it to Grantaire. 

But Grantaire obviously thinks he would, that he did, and—

“Did  _ you  _ hate  _ me _ ?” Enjolras asks finally. 

Grantaire’s already sketching out long lines hidden from Enjolras’s view. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t look up, when he smirks and says, “Never.” 

Enjolras can’t tell if he’s serious. He blinks and goes back to the email. 

 

\+ 

 

The end of September is torrential. It’s six in the evening and the sky is nearly black with thunderclouds. Rainwater floods the gutters in the streets and slams against windowpanes and roofs. Thunder growls in the distance, the storm so thick that Enjolras can’t even see the lightning. 

He’s conveniently tucked away in his apartment during the whole ordeal. He didn’t have to go into the office, thank God, because his editor lives across town and was trapped by a minor flood. He’d received an email that morning saying they’d conduct a meeting via Skype, and coming into the office wasn’t necessary. 

After the meeting, Enjolras tucks his editorial notes away and shuffles from his office to the kitchen. He’s still in pajamas; old, worn flannel pants and a ratty tshirt he stole from Ferre in college. The band logo on the front is long-faded and somewhat resembling Nirvana. He could be wrong. 

Agatha curls around his ankles while he makes tea for himself. The apartment is dark and drafty because of the storm, and the cat wasn’t pleased about being locked out of his office during the meeting. 

Enjolras scoops her up into his arms while waiting for his tea to steep. She butts her head against his chin, purring, and he kisses her between the ears. 

“You’re such a spoiled princess,” he mumbles. He adjusts his grip to be one-handed and takes his tea in the other. Agatha sniffs it, blinking her big, milky eyes, and butts her head against him again. 

In the living room, Enjolras gently sets the cat down on her spot in the armchair, clearly marked by layers of grey hair that have slowly accumulated over it. She settles carefully, turning a circle three times, and then lowering herself down. Her tail curls over her nose and she watches Enjolras with squinted eyes as he tugs a blanket over his lap and flicks on the TV. 

Two hours into a marathon of Friends, there’s a banging knock on Enjolras’s door. He doesn’t notice at first, because thunder growls over the first half of it, but seconds later it comes again and he knows he isn’t just hearing things. 

He flings the blanket from his lap and sets his tea on the coffee table. Agatha flicks her tail in irritation at the disruption; Enjolras feels similarly. His days off, ones where he truly doesn’t need to work on anything, are rare and coveted. Whoever this is better have a damn good reason. 

When he opens the door, for a moment his brain neatly trips on itself and doesn’t allow him to make sense of the situation. He stands in the doorway, frowning, for a full thirty seconds at least. 

Grantaire says, “Can I come in?” 

Enjolras says, “What?” 

“Can I?” Grantaire motions with his chin. His arms are occupied, strangely, wrapped around his stomach like he’s holding something in. He’s completely soaked. His clothes drip on the welcome mat and his hair is plastered to his head. He’s not wearing a beanie. 

“What?” Enjolras says again. “I don’t understand.” 

A pathetic  _ yoooowwwwl _ emerges from where Grantaire’s arms are wrapped around himself. Enjolras startles. Grantaire smiles sheepishly and adjusts his careful grip. “I can explain,” he says. 

“Please do.” Enjolras looks over his shoulder into his apartment. He has some towels in the hallway closet, and he’ll grab them as soon as Grantaire makes sense of this bizarre situation. 

“See, the thing is,” Grantaire starts. He never really finishes. The drenched jacket he’s wearing is opened with one hand, and the other cradles a small, bedraggled, damp, brutal-looking cat. 

The creature emits another grating yowl, ears flattened to its skull, and implores Enjolras with big yellow eyes. Its claws are hooked lethally in Grantaire’s wet tshirt. It does not look, in any way, like it enjoys what is happening. 

“Uhm,” Enjolras says. The cat has faded scratches and bite marks all over its face and ears. “If you want, I can… take the cat and get you some towels?” 

Grantaire sags in relief. “Could you lock him in the bathroom? I don’t want him hiding under your couch or terrorizing Agatha. He’s not exactly friendly, and—”

The cat in question hisses and growls and tries to claw his way out of Grantaire’s grip. He’s staring at Enjolras’s feet and his damp fur is rising along his spine. 

Enjolras looks down and sees that Agatha has wandered over. She blinks up at Grantaire and the new cat, uninterested. Enjolras gently nudges her back down the hallway. “Good idea.” He reaches for the angry cat, thinks better of it, and turns to grab a towel from the closet. 

The cat growls and twists and claws at Enjolras during the transfer. Feeling a little guilty, Enjolras bundles him up in the towel and carries him swiftly to the bathroom. He dumps the cat unceremoniously in the bathtub and shuts the door with as much speedy grace as he can muster. Then he returns to the front door, several clean towels in hand, and lets Grantaire in.

“You still haven’t explained,” he comments after shutting the door.

Grantaire toes off his squelching sneakers and leaves them by the door. He gingerly hangs his coat on a spare hook by the door. He scrubs a towel over his head. It makes his hair stick up in every direction, and he looks a little ridiculous. Enjolras fights a smile. 

“I had a meeting with a client,” Grantaire says, rubbing the towel over his shirt, now, “And I was walking home. About two blocks from here I saw that creature—” He nods at the bathroom, “—all huddled by a dumpster, miserable and with about a hundred scratches oozing in damning ways. The poor thing just let me scoop him up, no problem.” 

Enjolras collects the now soaked towel and watches Grantaire start in with the second, on the lower half of his body. “Not that I’m unwilling to help, but why did you bring him here?” 

Thunder rattles the windows in the living room. Grantaire is hunched over so Enjolras can’t see his face, but he hears, “You were closer than anyone else, and I didn’t want him out there any longer.” 

“Oh.” Reasonable. It’s not a color he’s used to seeing on Grantaire. 

“Thanks for the towels.” Grantaire straightens up. He’s considerably less wet, though now he’s significantly more ruffled and shivery. Enjolras can see the goosebumps all over his arms and neck. 

“Shall we go take care of that cat?” he suggests, a moment too late. He’d been staring at the pale slice of collarbone not covered in clinging-tshirt, and his ears burn at the slip up. 

Grantaire doesn’t comment on it. “Yes. Do you have peroxide and cotton pads? And a hair dryer? Oh, and maybe a brush?” He’s already moving for the bathroom. “Maybe some gauze and medical tape?” 

“How beat up is this cat?” Enjolras leaves the towels in a soggy heap and shuffles after Grantaire. Agatha has returned to her throne on the armchair and watches them warily. Enjolras reaches to scratch her ears but she ducks away from his cold hand. 

“I’m not sure.” Grantaire opens the wrong door and catches a peek into Enjolras’s office. “Woops.” He spins, opens the bathroom door, and then slams it again. “That fucker’s fast.” He opens the door slower, his foot pushing through first, and then vanishes into the bathroom. 

Enjolras grabs a can of wet cat food and a small bowl from the kitchen, then Agatha’s brush from the shelf above the microwave. He knocks on the bathroom door once, and then opens it carefully. 

The bathroom is small, and smaller with two men and a mangy, angry feline. Grantaire is perched in the bathtub with the cat wrapped in the towel between his legs. He grins at Enjolras when he comes in. 

“This is gonna be a handful,” he says lightly. He’s already got a long scratch down one of his arms. It’s shiny and red under the white fluorescent light. 

“Bet you’re glad you came to me,” Enjolras mutters. 

The cat food and brush are set on the counter. He rummages in the cupboard for the first aid box. It’s stocked mostly with bandaids and antiseptic wipes, but he finds peroxide and cotton balls. 

He’s a little ashamed of the hot pink hair dryer he also finds, but only because he hadn’t realized it was there. Grantaire snorts when he sees it. 

“Hey,” Enjolras snaps. “My masculinity isn’t so fragile that I can’t enjoy a simple color.” He considers the machine dolefully. “Though it  _ is _ pretty garish.” 

Another snort. “Only Jehan can pull off that color. And Montparnasse, on a good day.” 

“Don’t let Cosette hear you say that, this is her favorite color.” 

“Not when it’s that neon.” A scrabbling sound and a scratchy  _ meeeoow _ emanate from the tub. “I don’t mean to be rude, but can we hurry up? This little bastard is going to shred my arms if I don’t get this done in the next thirty seconds.” 

Enjolras hooks up the hair dryer and hands it to Grantaire. He pulls out more towels, perches on the closed toilet seat, and watches as Grantaire switches the dryer to its lowest setting and directs it at the cat. 

The effect is instant and catastrophic. The cat launches himself from Grantaire’s hold spectacularly, yowling, and Enjolras lunges to snag him in the towel. A claw hooks on his bicep and rips open his skin; the creature twists about a thousand different ways and nearly slips free. 

But Enjolras holds him steady, and gently crushes him to his chest. The cat growls lowly. Grantaire’s laughing. 

“What?” Enjolras snaps. “I can still kick you out of my home, you know.” 

The cackling doesn’t cease. The dryer is still on, and Grantaire weakly attempts to point it at the cat. The growling increases. Enjolras fears for his life, a little. 

“Your face,” Grantaire gasps, “was  _ priceless _ . God. That was performance art, right there.” 

Enjolras glowers at him. “You’re the worst person I have ever met.” He daringly frees one hand from the tangle of cat-and-towel-and-Enjolras to bat the hair dryer away. “And turn that thing off, you’re just scaring him. I thought you were the cat whisperer.” 

Grantaire wheezes, but flicks off the dryer. The cat relaxes incrementally. Enjolras gently rubs the towel over his body, going against the fur in an attempt to relieve some of the dampness. He can feel claws digging into his pajama pants and the skin under them. 

“He’s just utterly terrified,” Grantaire says after a moment. He reaches up from his spot in the tub and offers his hand to the cat’s face. Enjolras gently rubs a corner of the towel on the cat’s head. The claws slowly retract. 

When the cat is marginally more dry than before, Enjolras carefully deposits him in the tub. Grantaire pets him, cooing softly, and the cat hunches down against the porcelain. His ears flick, tail whipping from side to side. 

Enjolras grabs the peroxide and cotton balls. He can see now, without the barrier of Grantaire’s coat or soaked fur or the surprise of Grantaire on his doorstep, that the cat has more scratches and bleeding marks than he’d originally realized. He looks fresh out of a fight with a larger cat, or a raccoon. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks Grantaire.

“Yes.” Grantaire pours some peroxide onto a cotton ball and unceremoniously grabs the cat again. “He’s not going to like it, at all, but if I don’t clean these, it’s not going to be good.” At the uncertain look Enjolras throws him, he adds, “I do this all the time with cats at the shelter. We can’t get a vet for every little thing, so most of us have basic first aid training. He’ll be okay.” 

It doesn’t sound like it. As soon as Grantaire presses the cotton ball to a nasty cut on his skull, the cat meows pitifully and tries to twist away. Grantaire holds fast, murmuring inaudible reassurances, and the process continues in that way. 

Enjolras moves the trash can closer so Grantaire can just drop the used cotton balls in. After the first few scratches, the cat stops wriggling and hissing, and resolves himself to simply glowering at Grantaire and keeping his ears flat to his skull. Enjolras feels a long, unending pang of sympathy for the creature. 

Finally, Grantaire finishes up. He swipes a cotton ball over one final scrape on the cat’s hind leg, and then releases him. The cat slinks to the corner of the bathtub hunches up. 

Grantaire clambers to his feet and goes to the sink to wash his hands. The cat immediately licks over a wound on his paw, then stops. 

“Is it okay for him to lick that stuff?” Enjolras asks. 

“I didn’t use much,” Grantaire explains, “and most got swiped off by the cotton. He’ll be okay. None of the cuts are deep; they should heal well enough.” 

Enjolras nods. He watches Grantaire crack open the wet food and carefully peel the lid all the way off. He fills the bowl with water and sets both in the tub, on the far side from the cat. Then he grabs one of the fresh, dry towels and arranges a sort of bed in the middle. 

“There,” he says. 

“Wait.” Enjolras kicks Grantaire’s ankle. “Did you just make a home for a cat in  _ my bathtub _ ?” 

Grantaire purses his lips. “I can take him home,” he offers weakly. 

Rain whacks incriminatingly against the tiny window set high in the wall. Guilt floods Enjolras. 

“Fine,” he sighs. “He can stay here for the night.” 

They leave the bathroom with the light on. Enjolras leads the way to the living room. “What are you going to do with him?” he asks. 

“I’ll take him to the shelter and scan him for a chip,” Grantaire explains. “If he’s a runaway, I’ll find his family. If not, well.” 

The sentence goes unfinished. Enjolras chews his lip. 

They’re standing in the middle of the room, watching each other. Enjolras gets the distinct feeling he’s supposed to be doing something, but he can’t for the life of him think of what it is. Grantaire won’t meet his gaze. 

Something in Enjolras’s brain clicks quietly into place. “Bahorel lives closer to you than I do,” he says suddenly. 

Grantaire shrugs. He’s staring intently at a spot on the carpet. He looks more rumpled than he did before, completely dry and covered in scratches and cat fur. 

“Why didn’t you go to him?” Enjolras presses. 

Another shrug. “Sorry for intruding,” he says. “I’ll go, and come back for the cat tomorrow morning.” He makes to move past Enjolras. 

The recent months hit Enjolras like the rain currently pelting his windowpanes. He says, “No, it’s fine,” and feels his whole body heat up in a blush. 

Grantaire pauses. He eyes Enjolras warily. “I don’t want to bother you,” he says. 

“That’s new,” Enjolras teases. It doesn’t land quite right, though, a stumbled joke with uneven footing. Grantaire watches it trip without blinking. “Really, you can stay a while,” Enjolras presses. “Here, I’ll— do you want tea?” 

Grantaire blinks. “Tea?” 

“All feline heroes deserve a reward for their good deeds.” Enjolras practically scampers for the kitchen. “Do you take sugar? Cream?” 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire calls. 

He ignores it. Something slimy twists up his insides. He’s not entirely sure what it is, if it’s bad or good or true neutral like his experimental characters from D&D back in high school, but he doesn’t like it either way. 

The thing is, Grantaire’s never been to his house, before. They’ve never really even been alone together. There’s always been the buffer of their friends, or the crowds of an event, or the bustle of being in public. It’s never just been the two of them in a room, with nothing to keep them for leaping at each other’s throats. 

So it’s disconcerting that without that wall, that barrier to keep them from tearing into each other like they always do, they don’t. There’s no brittle agreement that they won’t start something, no venomous gazes that are thinly hidden behind public civility. Learning that, left to their own devices, they don’t hate each other as much as it seemed throws Enjolras off balance. 

He’s standing on a ledge he didn’t know existed, and the height is dizzying. If he falls, it’s a long way down, and there’s no rope to climb back up. 

The tea kettle whistles. He’d forgotten he’d even put it on. 

Two steaming mugs in hand, Enjolras shuffles back to the living room. Grantaire is tucked into a corner of the couch, the one closest to Agatha’s armchair, and he’s reaching over to stroke her ears while absently watching the TV. Enjolras sets the mugs down and sits at the other end. 

“For some reason,” Grantaire says after a few moments, “I thought that when you were alone you’d rehearse those impassioned speeches you give at meetings and protests. Not watch Friends reruns.” 

Enjolras replies, “I save the rehearsing for the shower.” 

It takes a moment for Grantaire to realize it’s a joke. When it hits, he snorts. “Nice, Apollo. You are human, after all.” 

“Did you think I was less than?” He tries to make it as light as his previous comment, but it falls flat. 

“No,” Grantaire says thoughtfully. They’re not looking at each other, but Enjolras thinks they’re also not looking at the screen. “More than.” 

An irregular beat thumps between Enjolras’s ribs. He leans forward and grabs his tea. The mouthful he takes burns his tongue, but he swallows it and two more, anyway. 

 

+

 

The power goes out half an hour later. The lights flicker ominously; lightning turns the whole room white; thunder crashes through the world; it all goes black. 

Enjolras immediately lights two candles that sit on the end table by his elbow. Firelight flickers warmly, and he gets up to light three more on his entertainment center. 

Grantaire, impressed at the efficiency, says, “You have a lot of candles.” 

“Ferre gives them to me,” Enjolras says. “He says they help with anxiety.” There are more candles on the coffee table, so he lights them, too. Conflicting smells are starting to fill the room. Without the sound of the TV, the rain and thunder press in on them. Agatha has poked her head up from the ball she curled herself into, but the situation clearly doesn’t impress her, because she returns to her nap right away. 

Enjolras grabs a pair of mini flashlights from the junk drawer in the kitchen. When he goes back to the living room, Grantaire is shrugging into his still-damp coat. 

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks. 

Grantaire pauses. He frowns. “I better go home.”

“You can’t leave.” Enjolras flicks on one of the flashlights. “We’re in a blackout and it’s storming. I can’t in good conscience let you leave.” 

A smirk pulls at Grantaire’s mouth. “And we must always think of Enjolras’s conscience.” 

He refuses to bristle. “Put your coat down,” he says coldly. “You can sleep on the couch, if you’d like. I have spare blankets, I’ll grab them.” He tosses the unlit flashlight at Grantaire. 

“It’s only nine thirty,” Grantaire says weakly. 

“I have work in the morning.” Enjolras marches for his linen closet. “I wake up at six. I leave the house at seven. The storm should be gone by then, so you can take your cat to the shelter and get that squared away.” He yanks out a thick quilt and spare pillow, flashlight tucked under his chin.

“You don’t have to do this,” Grantaire calls. 

“Shut up.” He’d do this for any one of his friends. Just because he and Grantaire never got along before all this cat business started doesn’t mean he’s going to send him out in the rain and dark. It’s bad manners. 

Grantaire watches helplessly as Enjolras dumps the quilt and pillow on the couch. Enjolras gives his rumpled clothing a once over and says, “I have sweatpants and a tshirt you can borrow.” 

The other man blinks at him. “Why are you being like this?” he asks. “You hate me. That’s like, one of your defining personality traits. ‘Proud, strong leader, hates Grantaire, wears red’. I don’t know what to do with this.” 

Enjolras blinks, too. “Is that what you think of me?” 

“I’m pretty sure we’ve had this conversation before.” 

“Yeah, but that was when you told me you thought I hated you. Past-tense. Hat _ ed _ . You can’t just switch tenses on me, it’s inconsistent grammar and Ferre would not stand for it.” 

“Modern culture and literature abolishes the strict rules of grammar.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Grantaire, either you accept that I’m trying to be nice or you don’t. Just promise me that you won’t go out in the storm, tonight.” 

Three trophies and sixteen blue ribbons advertise Enjolras’s ability to debate his way out of any situation. This is no different, because Grantaire’s shoulders sag and he says, “Fine. I’ll take the sweatpants and the shirt.” 

Satisfaction is a warm creature that purrs in Enjolras’s chest. He leaves to fetch the clothes. 

“And I don’t hate you,” he says over his shoulder. “I’m getting used to this whole ‘fragile agreement to be friendly’ thing.” He thinks he hears Grantaire mumble something, but he doesn’t catch it. The monster of satisfaction keeps him from wondering what it could have been. 

Enjolras’s room is dark and shadowy. His flashlight throws yellow light in a straight beam over the carpet and walls. He grabs a pair of sweats and a tshirt with the periodic table of the elements printed on it from his dresser. 

When he passes the bathroom, he hears a faint scratching at the door. He pauses; there’s a quiet meow, almost drowned in the thunder and rain. More scratching. 

“Can I let the cat out?” he asks Grantaire when handing him the clothes. 

“I don’t know how he’ll feel about Agatha and a completely new environment.” Grantaire chews his lip and wrings the shirt between his hands. “I’ll go in there to change and keep him company for a while.” 

“Okay.” Enjolras watches Grantaire go. He sits on the couch and Agatha crawls into his lap. She sniffs curiously at one of the scratches on his arms. Apparently it’s not that bad, because she just curls up in a bony huddle on his thighs and settles down. Enjolras pets her slowly. 

“What a situation,” he sighs. 

The candles flicker. He can hear Grantaire cooing to the cat in the bathroom. Rain patters violently on the windows; wind howls down the street outside. 

He remembers Ferre telling him he was whipped by Grantaire for letting him get away with so much cat stuff. He silently resolves to never let this night become one more piece of evidence in Ferre’s file on the matter. 

 

+

 

The next morning when Enjolras wakes up, at six o’clock on the dot, Grantaire and the cat are both gone. The bathroom is cleaned up of towels and cat food cans, the quilt folded on the couch, the borrowed pajamas neatly stacked on top. 

There’s a note left on the coffee table. In Grantaire’s messy artist hand, it reads, 

 

_ I fed the Cat one of Agatha’s wet foods, hope that’s ok. Also fed Agatha— she started yelling at me and I didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for the couch and the clothes. I’ll let you know what happens with the Cat. He liked your bathtub. Also, I stole a piece of bread. Also all of your pens are shitty except for this one. You should buy more.  _

_ \- R _

Under the message is a messy little doodle of Agatha and the Cat, and a stick figure on a skateboard wearing sunglasses. Enjolras shakes his head and fights the smile tugging at his mouth. 

Agatha gives him a knowing look from her armchair. He avoids it. 

 

\+ 

 

Enjolras finds Grantaire before the next meeting, two days later, and asks about the Cat. 

“Oh!” Grantaire’s eyes light up. “I found his owners, lovely couple that live a few streets over. They lost him a couple days before, and he’s an indoor cat, so they called all over the city looking for him.” Grantaire fishes in his pocket for his phone and pulls up a picture of two women cradling the Cat between them. “They picked him up hardly an hour after I called. His name is Romeo.” 

Happiness bubbles up in Enjolras. “That’s great,” he agrees. 

“Yeah.” Grantaire puts his phone away. “Thanks again, for letting me, you know, invade your home.” His cheekbones are pink.

Enjolras doesn’t know what to do with that. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, flapping a hand through the air. “What are friends for, if not nursing small creatures back to health?” 

Grantaire pokes him in the chest, grinning. “You just said ‘friends’.” 

“Uhm.” Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “You’re right, I did.” 

Another harsh jab, the grin melting into a smirk. “You think we’re  _ friends _ .” 

“Well we are, aren’t we?” Enjolras glances around, as if anyone else in the group is going to step in and explain what the hell is happening. No such luck; no one’s paying attention to them. 

“Well,  _ yeah _ ,” Grantaire says, “but I didn’t think you’d go around admitting it. You’re growing, Apollo, look at that. Character development.” 

“Hey!” Enjolras pokes him back, right between his collar bones. He’s blushing. “It’s not my fault we were never close, all you did in meetings was antagonize me.” 

“You say that like I stopped.” 

“You  _ did _ .” Which is true. It’s been weeks since Enjolras has had to snap at Grantaire or endure a long-winded dismantling of one of his passionate ramblings. They haven’t fought in a long time, and it’s a streak he’d like to maintain. 

Grantaire straightens up, rolling his shoulders back. There’s a light in his eyes that Enjolras usually associates with Combeferre and pulling all-nighters to complete a project. In short: Grantaire just hardened his resolve. 

“I’m going to drive you up the wall, today,” he says cheerily. 

Enjolras’s shoulders slump. “Oh no.” His voice is weak. 

“Oh  _ yes _ .” 

“Do you  _ want _ me to hate you? Is that it? You’re so scared of change that as soon as I think of you as something other than a  _ complete nuisance _ —” 

Grantaire’s already sauntering away. Enjolras throws his hands up and spins in the direction of Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Alabaster Jones is stretched out on their table, chewing on his harness. 

“You look like you just ate a lemon,” Courf comments lightly. 

“Or stubbed your toe,” Ferre counters. 

“ _ Meow _ ,” says Alabaster Jones. 

Enjolras agrees with them all. He scratches the cat behind the ears, and then does the same to Courf. Their reactions are alarmingly similar. Ferre flashes him a knowing look. 

“What?” Enjolras sighs. He might as well get it over with. 

“How’s Grantaire?” Ferre smirks around the straw of his drink. 

Enjolras snaps, “Oh, knock it off,” and marches away to begin the meeting. 

 

+

 

Grantaire follows through on his promise. Enjolras wants to strangle him no less than eight times over the course of the whole two hour meeting. He comes close twice, his self-control kicking in at the last second. Grantaire is annoyingly smug the whole time.

 

\+ 

On a blustery day in October, Enjolras comes home from his office and sees Jehan huddled on his doorstep. He stops, frowning, and then Jehan looks up and sees him. He beams. 

“Enj!” He leaps to his feet, but something about the movement is careful. 

“Jehan,” Enjolras greets. “What are you doing? Do you need something?” He moves past him to unlock the door and step into his apartment. Jehan follows, launching into an explanation. 

“My sister’s girlfriend has a cousin who had a pregnant cat, and the cat gave birth, only the cousin couldn’t keep the kittens, so when they were old enough he gave them to the girlfriend, only the  _ girlfriend _ couldn’t keep all of them, and my sister called me, and I was like ‘yeah I can take one’ but she gave me  _ three _ , only I can’t  _ take _ three, so I took one to Eponine, and one to Marius and Cosette, and then I thought to myself, ‘who else would take a cat on short notice’, and I thought Bahorel or Chetta, but they’re always busy, and Courf and Ferre already have Alabaster, and Montparnasse is allergic to cats, and—”

“Jehan,” Enjolras cuts in. The smaller man snaps his mouth shut. He’s sort of bouncing. He’s also sort of holding a small, orange ball of fur. “Is that the cat?” 

“Yes!” Jehan holds him up, like Simba in the Lion King. The cat is small, barely grown out of its kitten-fuzz, and it has big, green eyes. Enjolras’s head hurts. “I know you have Agatha, but you love cats and you’re always helping Grantaire and I thought ‘who better to care for this angelic creature’?” 

Enjolras’s brain is on break, so the rest of him takes a little too long to compute everything Jehan just threw at him. They’re still standing in his entryway. Agatha is meowing from somewhere inside the house for attention. 

“Wait,  _ me? _ ” he finally says. 

“You.” Jehan nods and pushes the cat a little closer. 

“I don’t understand. Why can’t Grantaire take him?” 

Jehan rolls his eyes. “Grantaire already has four cats, dummy.” He says it like it’s common knowledge. Like, “oh, dur, Grantaire has a life that you know  _ nothing _ about, despite recent events and opportunities to open up. Keep up!”

“I had no idea,” Enjolras says flatly. 

The cat meows. Jehan is still holding him up. 

“He has his shots and he’s fixed and everything,” Jehan says. He sounds a little less enthusiastic, like maybe he’s rethinking this. “Please, Enj? I don’t want to take him to the shelter.” Jehan makes his eyes go big, and they mirror the cat’s almost exactly. 

Enjolras gives in. “Fine.” He collects the cat into his arms. 

Jehan beams. “Thank you!” He pecks Enjolras’s cheek. “What are you going to name him?” 

“What?” Enjolras looks from the cat— his  _ new _ cat, dear God— to Jehan, and back again. “I— I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” 

“Okay, okay.” Jehan sighs happily. “Thank you again. Oh! And I called Grantaire, he said he has a bunch of old toys he’s bringing by for him. You know, ‘cause he’s a kitten. Can’t play with Agatha, can he?” 

“Wait—” 

Jehan flutters from the house. “Bye, Enj!” 

The door shuts. 

Enjolras is left with his new cat and his heartbeat in his ears. 

“Well,” he tells the cat. “Welcome home, I guess.” He puts the creature down and watches him nose around the living room. Agatha watches from her armchair, pointedly aloof, and Enjolras gets the impression that she’s irritated at him. 

He ignores her and starts unloading his messenger bag in his office. Three fat file folders are dumped onto his desk, each one a different collection of photos and notes and interviews for a different article. All of them are due at the end of the week. The weight of it is a little crushing. 

In the living room, he gently herds the new cat (he needs a name, but Enjolras’s brain is  _ fried _ ) in the direction of the litter box, and then in the direction of the food and water bowl in the kitchen. Then he grabs a towel from the bathroom and makes a little nest for the cat in the corner of the living room. 

The cat ignores it, and follows him into his office. 

“Oh, no, buddy,” Enjolras says. He nudges the cat out with his foot. “You have to stay out here.” The cat blinks up at him dolefully. Enjolras shuts the door. 

Within seconds, the little terror is racing down the hallway, scratching at the door, and prowling the kitchen, yowling like he’s dying. Enjolras tries to ignore him, but then he hears Agatha start meowing, too, and he can’t take it. 

He opens the door to his office and stalks out to the living room. Agatha glares at him from her armchair. She meows loudly and with malcontent. 

The new cat is sitting in the middle of the kitchen. Enjolras sits down a foot away from him, huffily crossing his legs. They stare at each other for a moment. The cat meows. 

“Listen,” Enjolras says sternly. “I need to work, which means I need you to be quiet.” 

Another meow. 

“I’m serious, junior.” The nickname just sort of happens. 

The cat crawls into his lap. 

“Come on,” Enjolras whines. He pets the cat, reluctantly, and realizes that he’s trapped. He can’t get up when he’s got a lapful of kitten, it’d be inhumane. 

Agatha slowly wanders into the kitchen. Enjolras reaches a hand out to her, and she creeps closer warily. The kitten twists in Enjolras’s lap to look at her. He gets the distinct feeling they’re having some sort of conversation, and that Agatha is somehow winning, but because he’s severely lacking in the “speaks cat” department, he has no way of knowing. 

Finally, Agatha curls up against Enjolras’s hip on the floor, and he’s twice as stuck as he was thirty seconds ago. 

“Thanks, Jehan,” he grumbles. He’s still wearing his work clothes. 

There’s a knock on the front door. 

“Who is it?” Enjolras yells. Both cats flex their paws in a way that implies he isn’t allowed to move to answer the door. 

“Grantaire,” comes the reply. “I come bearing gifts.” 

Enjolras breathes a sigh. It might be relief, it might be exasperation; he’ll decide later. “Come on in.” 

The door clicks open and then shut. The kitten perks up but doesn’t move from Enjolras’s lap. The floor is starting to get uncomfortable. 

“Where are you?” Grantaire asks. He sounds like he’s near the hallway that leads to the bathroom and bedrooms. 

“Kitchen. I’m trapped.”

“Trapped? How are you—” 

Enjolras twists his head and sees Grantaire standing in the doorway. Grantaire grins, and he’s already well on his way to laughing. 

“Help me,” Enjolras says weakly. 

“Is this the cat Jehan bequeathed you with?” Grantaire steps into the kitchen and motions to the orange kitten that has staked a seemingly permanent claim on Enjolras’s lap. 

“The very same.” Enjolras half-heartedly scratches the cat’s head. His eyes squint shut and he starts purring. “He’s been here maybe fifteen minutes and is already driving me nuts.” 

“I think he’s cute.” Grantaire crouches down and ruffles the cat’s head. “Hey, buddy. Don’t put me out of a job, now, I’m still in charge of driving Apollo insane.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Agatha’s easy because she’s old and just needs tummy rubs. Kittens are—” He wrinkles his nose. “High energy.” 

“You could have said no.” Grantaire is smirking in a way that informs Enjolras that he knows Enjolras could not, in fact, say no. 

Enjolras says this out loud. “What was I supposed to tell Jehan, ‘I’m soulless and don’t want to take in a helpless kitten’? Unacceptable.” 

“You’re so pure,” Grantaire says. 

“Screw you.” Enjolras shifts his weight. The kitten flashes him a warning look. Agatha grumpily rises to her feet and stalks over to Grantaire. “Did you bring toys?” Enjolras asks. “I have a catnip mouse. That’s it. And something tells me this guy is going to need more than that.” 

“Yes, I brought toys.” Grantaire motions towards the living room. “They’re in there. Do you want me to just leave them on the coffee table?” 

“I mean, if you—” Enjolras stops. He looks at Grantaire. Grantaire looks back. Enjolras says loudly, “You have  _ four cats!” _

Grantaire snickers. “Yes.” 

“Why do you have  _ four cats!” _

“Why not?” 

“Why didn’t you tell me!” His voice is rising in pitch. He’s also smiling. 

Grantaire smiles back, and laughs out his next words. “You didn’t ask!”

“Well, I—” Enjolras stops. “I have a question.” 

“Ask away.” 

“It’s more of a favor, really.” 

“Again: ask away.” 

“I mean, you don’t have to, I only ask because you’re great with cats and apparently hoard them away—”

“Enjolras.” 

He chews his lip for a moment. The kitten flexes his claws into Enjolras’s work slacks. “I have a lot of work to do, but I don’t want to leave this guy alone, seeing as he just got here. Would you be willing to… I don’t know… Cat-sit, I guess?” 

Grantaire snorts. “Cat-sit?” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“No, no, I can.” Grantaire scratches at the stubble on his chin. He regards the kitten with fondness. “What’s his name?” 

“I have no idea.” 

It’s funnier that it should be, and they both crack up. Enjolras’s laughter startles the kitten, who sends him a wounded look and dislodges himself from Enjolras’s lap. 

“I have some sketches and things I was going to do,” Grantaire says while helping Enjolras off the floor. His hands are warm and ink-stained. “Is it alright if I set up shop in your living room?” 

“Do whatever you need,” Enjolras assures him. “Just don’t steal anything like my extensive collection of priceless, irreplaceable chinaware, and we should be good.” 

The joke takes a moment to sink in. Enjolras blushes. 

“You don’t actually have a case full of fine china, do you?” Grantaire asks. 

“No.” Enjolras smiles weakly. “I was trying to be funny?” 

Grantaire shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “It was cute. Keeping working at it.” He leaves the kitchen and both of the cats follow like they’re magnetized to him. 

Enjolras grabs a water bottle from the fridge with the hopes of dispelling his headache and follows. Grantaire is pulling out several sketchpads and pencil cases from his bag, and when he sees Enjolras he motions to a cardboard box sitting in Agatha’s armchair. 

“Those are the toys,” he explains. “There’s also a bag of cat treats I picked up on my way over, and, uh.” He turns away. “A collar I thought you might want for him.”

Enjolras reaches one hand into the box and pulls out the collar. It’s solid red and has a little silver tag with Enjolras’s phone number already etched on the back. There’s another collar, too, dark purple and with a tag that has Agatha’s name as well as Enjolras’s number. 

He holds up both collars, eyebrows raised. 

Grantaire blushes. “I figured you might want one for Agatha, too, in case. She ever got out.” He scratches the back of his neck. Enjolras realizes it’s because he’s embarrassed. “I bought it after Romeo’s owners got him back. I just didn’t get around to giving it to you.” 

“Oh.” Enjolras swallows thickly. He rubs a thumb over the tag with Agatha’s name inscribed in it. Such a sensible thing; Agatha can be quick when she wants, and she’s already made a couple unsuccessful breaks for the outside world when Enjolras kept the front door open a little too long. He’s not sure what he’d do if she got out and met a fate similar to Romeo the cat’s. “Thank you,” he says quietly. 

Grantaire just nods.

Enjolras bends down to fasten the collar around Agatha’s neck. She glares at him, but after making sure she can still breathe and move around without discomfort, she grudgingly allows the restriction. 

Enjolras has a little more trouble getting the kitten to hold still long enough for him to fasten the collar around his neck. Eventually Grantaire stops laughing at him and takes pity, holding the kitten still so Enjolras can buckle the collar. He gets a vicious glare in return. 

“Oh, boo hoo,” he says, without heat. He bops the cat on its little nose. “You’ll get used to it.” 

Grantaire sets the cat down. He slinks away.

“I’ll be in my office,” Enjolras says, pointing down the hall. “Thank you again, and if you need anything, or you need to leave, just. Let me know.” 

A disbelieving laugh from Grantaire stops Enjolras from turning away. “You’re going to be  _ in the house _ and you want someone to cat-sit?” Enjolras doesn’t have time to be embarrassed, because then Grantaire is continuing with, “That’s the cutest thing I have ever heard. You’re worse than I am. Oh my God. You’re not a cat owner, you’re a cat  _ parent _ .” 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras implores.

“This is the greatest day of my life!” Grantaire sinks onto the couch, still laughing, and pulls one of his sketchpads onto his lap. “Enjolras: stoic revolutionary, uptight activist, doesn’t want to leave his new kitten alone while he works  _ in the next room over _ .” 

“If you don’t want to be here,” Enjolras starts. He’s angry. Or endeared. The latter is more likely, but he wants the former to be true. 

“Oh. Oh no, no, I want to be here,” Grantaire promises. He stretches across the couch to reach into the box of toys, and pulls out a plastic stick with a bunch of feathers dangling from a string. “I fucking love kittens, you can’t keep me away.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. Angry. Endeared. He’ll flip a coin. “Have fun, then,” he says, sarcastic. 

“Will do!” 

He catches a glimpse of the kitten and Agatha leaping for the bunch of feathers when Grantaire dangles it in front of their faces, and then leaves for his office. 

_ Heads I’m angry, tails I’m endeared. _

He boots up his laptop, flips through the files and notes and interviews. Hears Grantaire laugh quietly from the living room. 

He scrounges up a quarter from his desk drawer and flips it. Tails. 

Well then. 

 

\+ 

 

Three hours and half an article later, there’s a quiet tap on the office door. Enjolras spins in his chair slowly, eyesight blurry from the computer screen and his ongoing headache. “Yeah?” 

Grantaire peeks in. He’s discarded his beanie, and he’s barefoot. He looks comfortable and soft and like everything Enjolras wishes he could be instead of working.

“I was going to order a pizza,” Grantaire says. “If that’s okay. You want in?” 

Enjolras glances sadly at his workload. “I’m so hungry,” he whispers, because he is. “But I have a lot of work to do,” he says louder, because he does. “So—”

“So that’s a yes,” Grantaire interrupts.

“What? No, that’s—”

“Enj,” he says loudly. “You need a break. You look ready to tip over at any moment. And, your brand new kitten wants to bond with you. See?”

The kitten in question toddles into the office from between Grantaire’s feet. He meows and rubs up against Enjolras’s legs, looking up at him with huge, green eyes. 

How can he resist that?

“Okay,” he concedes. “As long as you don’t put mushrooms on that pizza.” 

Grantaire beams. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He disappears back into the living room, humming, and Enjolras sighs. 

He scoops the kitten up. “You need a name.”

The kitten meows in agreement. One of his little paws bats Enjolras in the chin. “Come on, junior,” he says. He carries the cat out to the living room and dumps him on the couch. Grantaire is on the phone, presumably with the pizza place.

Drawings and sketches and charcoal renderings are strewn all over the coffee table. The few magazines and coasters Enjolras keeps on the surface have been carefully stacked out of the way on the entertainment center. Enjolras stares at the drawings, the sweeping lines, the sharp angles, the figures and shapes he recognizes and the ones he can’t make sense of. 

He sees Courf and Ferre, a small pencil sketch, huddled together in a corner booth of the Musain. He sees Cosette and Marius, a full-color ink drawing, dancing at one of Bahorel’s parties. He sees Eponine and Musichetta and Jehan, all drawn in blue ink profiles. He sees the shadowy lines of Feuilly and Joly playing chess as charcoal figures. 

There are landscapes done in pastels and skylines done in watercolor. There are cats everywhere, in every medium, doing mundane things and playing and lounging among flowers and cradled in anonymous arms. Enjolras sees Alabaster Jones in his little sweater and harness; Agatha with her bony body and big, filmy eyes. There are other cats, ones he doesn’t recognize, but repeated frequently enough that he thinks he knows who they are. 

Grantaire sits down on the couch beside him. Enjolras points to one of the cats that’s been drawn about a dozen times across the many, many images before him. The cat is all black except for its paws, which are white, and is usually depicted with bright yellow eyes. 

“Is that one of yours?” he asks. 

“That’s Nyx,” Grantaire says. “I call him Nicky.” He points to a fluffy grey cat with one, green eye. “That’s Piccolo. He’s grumpy as all hell and ancient.” A calico with half a tail. “Marie Antoinette, or Princess. She sleeps on my pillow.” A white and grey striped tabby who’s always drawn with a snaggle tooth. “Dragon. She brings home dead birds and gets mad when I throw them out.” 

Enjolras laughs despite himself. “Your cats are utterly ridiculous.” 

Grantaire shrugs. His smile is helpless and it makes his eyes soft. Enjolras is inescapably aware that there are only about seven inches of space between them on the couch. 

“I rescued all of them from the shelter I volunteer at,” Grantaire explains. He’s scanning the drawings, hands folded in his lap, fingers picking at the bracelets knotted around one wrist. “Nicky was my first foster cat.” 

“Somehow I didn’t make the connection between you volunteering at a cat shelter and you having a cat.” 

“I can’t get mad at you for every connection you fail to make, Apollo.”

It feels like there should be an insult somewhere in there, but Grantaire’s voice is so quiet that Enjolras realizes he’s not being made fun of, for once. 

The kitten hops up on the couch and curls up between them. Enjolras watches Grantaire absently reach down to pet him, and says, “You should name him.”

Grantaire raises one eyebrow at Enjolras. “Why?” 

“I’m horrible at naming things,” Enjolras admits. “When I was ten I had a goldfish. I named it Goldie.” 

Grantaire laughs loud enough that the kitten startles. 

Enjolras shrugs sheepishly by way of explanation. “For the first year I worked as a journalist, Ferre had to title most of my articles, because I was so bad at it.” 

More laughter. It’s a wonderfully jarring sound, to hear from Grantaire. 

“I’m serious, I’m the worst at naming things. I was so glad Agatha already had a name, she would have been ‘the Cat’ forever.” 

“Okay, okay,” Grantaire concedes. He bundles the kitten into his arms and buries a smile in the fur of his neck. The kitten rubs his cheek on Grantaire’s chin. “His name is Orangey.” 

Enjolras grabs a throw pillow and whacks Grantaire with it. “You’re despicable,” he pouts. 

“I couldn’t help it!” Grantaire leans away from another hit. He cradles the kitten to his chest, waving one of his small paws at Enjolras. “Don’t hurt your son, Enj, that’s just plain rude.” 

“Hurry up and  _ name _ my son something that isn’t horrendous, and I’ll leave you alone.” 

“Fine, fine!” Grantaire kisses the kitten between his ears. “His name is Helios. Because he’s orange. Like the sun.” He plops the kitten on Enjolras’s lap. “Also, Helios was the god of the sun before Apollo, so—” 

Enjolras hits him with the pillow again. 

“Hey!” 

“I like it,” Enjolras says. He hits Grantaire again. “I don’t like your reasoning, though, so I’ll refer to him as Heely.” 

Grantaire snickers and cowers from the pillow in the same frantic thump of Enjolras’s heartbeat. “That’s a dumb nickname.” 

“Yeah, well you’re dumb.” Enjolras stops attacking him with the pillow and considers the kitten— Helios, Heely, whichever— in his lap. Heely blinks up at him. He does look rather sunny. 

“I have something for you.” Grantaire leans forward and rifles through one of the sketchpads. 

Enjolras blinks, confused. “You what?” 

“Have something.” He tears out a page and hands it to Enjolras. Who stares, confused. Grantaire pushes the drawing at him, insistent. “Take it,” he urges. “Come on, it won’t bite you.”

Heely bites Enjolras’s thumb.

“Ow,” Enjolras says absently. Heely wriggles free of him and crawls onto Grantaire. 

The drawing is, at first, Agatha, and then Enjolras looks closer and realizes it’s  _ him _ and Agatha. In muted colors, outlined in ink, and utterly beautiful. Enjolras is cradling Agatha, head bowed over hers, and Agatha is stretching her nose up to touch his chin. It’s achingly simple and hard to look at. 

“Oh,” he says, accepting the drawing. 

“That’s it?” Grantaire teases. “Just ‘oh’?” 

“Give me a minute,” Enjolras snaps, “and I’ll rant and rave about how much I adore the— composition, or something.” 

Grantaire laughs mirthlessly. “I thought you’d like it.” He sounds unsure, though, like Enjolras’s reaction hadn’t been nearly as warm when considered in his head. 

“Well  _ obviously _ .” Enjolras smiles at Grantaire. “Thank you.” 

Grantaire waves him off. “Thanks for letting me play with your cats for three hours. Dream come true.” 

“Thanks for doing it.” 

When Enjolras was little, he hated thunderstorms. Not because of the loud noises, or the flash of lightning, or the potential to be plunged into darkness because of a power outage. He always told his mother it was because he could feel the storm under his skin, in his ears. It made him restless and uncomfortable. Later he realized that the rapid pressure changes and the static from the storm was what bothered him; too much overcharged air. It unsettled his bones. 

His bones feel unsettled now. Sitting on his couch, seven inches away from Grantaire, holding a drawing of himself and his ancient cat that Grantaire gave to him, he feels the pressure change in the vicinity of his ribcage and static charge the air around his head. 

A miniature thunderstorm, caught and hooked in the corners of the smile that hasn’t left Grantaire’s face all afternoon. 

The tension snaps when there’s a knock at the door. Grantaire gets up to answer it, and Enjolras realizes with a start that he’d been sitting there,  _ staring _ , like a complete asshat. 

His whole face burns. 

He gets up and scuttles into the kitchen while Grantaire pays the pizza delivery guy. A mantra of  _ act normal act normal act normal _ runs through Enjolras’s head on loop, and it doesn’t falter until he’s back in the living room, two glasses of lemonade in hand. 

Grantaire rises from the couch and shoves his hands in his pockets. He looks nervous. Enjolras stops. 

“I have a question,” Grantaire says. 

“Okay.” Enjolras goes to set down the glasses, but there’s nowhere on the coffee table that isn’t covered in drawings. The pizza box takes up the only available room. Enjolras stands awkwardly holding the glasses.

“It’s not really a question, actually,” Grantaire blurts. 

“Uhm.” Enjolras chews on his bottom lip. Pressure change, static. A thunderstorm on the horizon. 

“It’s just—” Grantaire starts, stops, starts again. “I never hated you.” 

Enjolras blinks. 

“Ever. Um. I know it seemed like it, a lot, but. That’s because I suck at expressing myself, and— things.” Grantaire’s shoulders slowly curl in on themselves. Enjolras realizes that he’s trying to admit something, and that something is a lot like his impending thunderstorm. 

“Combeferre said this was a good idea,” Grantaire says weakly, “but judging by your face he was wrong. Or I’m fucking up. Probably both. I can leave?” 

“Wait!” Enjolras lurches forward to stop him, even though he hadn’t moved, and lemonade sloshes dangerously. “Shit— what did. What did Ferre say, exactly?” 

Grantaire’s blushing. He looks away, at his drawings on the table, at some pictures hung on Enjolras’s wall. “I’m trying to tell you that I never hated you,” he says, fast, like he wants to get it over with, “because I actually had a crush on you and didn’t know how to deal with it and resorted to acting like a twelve year old.” He clears his throat awkwardly. 

Enjolras’s heart has either stopped working or started working so quickly he just can’t process his own heartbeat. 

“And Combeferre, like, confronted me about it,” Grantaire continues, in that same brutally honest, fast tone, “and told me I should tell you, and I thought it was a good idea at the time because, hey, we bonded over  _ cats _ , and now I’m realizing how stupid this is so—” 

This time he really does move to leave, bending to scoop his sketchbooks and pencils haphazardly into his messenger bag. He won’t look at Enjolras. His jaw is clenched, hands shaking. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says softly. 

He doesn’t stop. 

“Grantaire, wait—” 

“Sorry about this.” Grantaire laughs roughly. “Pretend it never happened. Thanks for letting me name your cat. See you later!” The last of the drawings and supplies vanish into his bag and he straightens up. His smile is thin and fragile. 

Enjolras tries again. “Just give me a second to—”

“Can I just go?” Grantaire asks. There’s a desperate edge to his voice. His hands clutch at the strap of his bag. “Let me— lick my wounds in private, I guess.” 

He’s slipping into his shoes and out the door before Enjolras can stop him.

Enjolras is still holding the damn lemonade. 

 

\+ 

 

“Ferre.” 

“Hm?” 

“ _ Ferre _ .” 

“What?” 

“Combeferre!” 

“God, Enjolras, what do you want?” 

Enjolras just thunks his head on the table by Combeferre’s elbow and makes a long, distressed noise. 

“Oh,” Combeferre says knowingly. “Did Grantaire talk to you?” 

“Yeah, and then he wouldn’t let me  _ say anything _ and he ran out of my apartment and he was upset and he thinks I hate him and it’s _ your fault _ .” 

“Oh,” Combeferre says again. Then, “Do you like him, then?” 

Enjolras makes the distressed noise again. 

 

+

 

Despite Enjolras’s best efforts, Heely starts sleeping on the bed with him. And walking on the counters in the kitchen. And scratching the back of the couch. And making nests out of Enjolras’s socks. 

He’s a ten pound ball of fur and a menace, and Enjolras is hopelessly enamoured. 

Agatha isn’t quite as taken with the kitten, and has taken to sleeping on Enjolras’s desk in his office. Enjolras allows it, because the poor girl needs a break, with those ancient, fragile bones of hers. 

Heely also sleeps with his head right by Enjolras’s ear, purring loudly, and its oddly comforting to know he’s not a solitary creature. 

 

\+ 

 

Enjolras doesn’t talk to Grantaire for two weeks. 

The first week, Enjolras vehemently  _ doesn’t  _ think about Grantaire. He puts the drawing from him in a drawer and doesn’t look at it. He finishes the three articles due at the end of the week, drowns himself in plans and meetings with Les Amis, plays with Heely and does anything he can think of that isn’t think of Grantaire. 

Then the second week hits and all he can do is  _ think of Grantaire _ . 

He thinks about how Grantaire ordered a pizza with half mushroom (which Enjolras hates) and half black olive (which Enjolras loves). He thinks about how Grantaire has a cat named Marie Antoinnette and a cat named Piccolo. He thinks about how Grantaire draws his friends with an endless capacity, but he only saw one picture of Enjolras. He thinks about how Grantaire happily spent three hours watching Enjolras’s new kitten. He thinks about how Grantaire smelled of pine and cinnamon when he sat seven inches away from Enjolras on the couch. 

He thinks about Grantaire coming to his house in the middle of a rainstorm with a bedraggled cat. He thinks about that fact that Bahorel would have been an easier option for him to turn to, and instead it was Enjolras’s doorstep he dripped on, Enjolras’s couch he slept on. 

He thinks about the way Grantaire’s hands shook when he told Enjolras he liked him. 

 

+

 

“He more than likes me, doesn’t he?” Enjolras asks Combeferre on the first day of the third week. 

“What makes you say that?” Combeferre doesn’t look up from the case study he’s working on. Across the table, Cosette works on the same case study. 

“Am I right?” Enjolras presses. 

They’re in the library, attempting to muddle through work, but Enjolras can’t stop thinking about all the wrong things. Like Grantaire wearing his tshirt and sweatpants and Grantaire naming his cat. 

“It’s not my place to say,” Combeferre says blandly. 

“Are we talking about Grantaire?” Cosette asks. 

“Does everybody know about this except me?” Enjolras wails quietly. 

Combeferre shoots him a knowing look. “I’m surprised you’re surprised.” 

“Enjolras,” Cosette says, leaning forward, “when was the last time you talked to Grantaire?” 

 

+

 

Jehan asks about Heely. 

“He’s doing great,” Enjolras promises. It’s the end of a meeting and Musichetta’s forcibly removing them from the Musain; the discussion went a little long and now it’s nearly nine o’clock. She’s anxious to close up. “Agatha’s still getting used to him, but I think she’ll be alright.”

“That’s great!” Jehan grins and bounces on the balls of his feet. “Another thing: do you like Grantaire?” 

Enjolras drops the file he’s holding. “W-what?” 

Jehan tilts his head to the side. “Do you?” 

“Uh—” 

“Jehan,” Musichetta snaps from behind the bar. “Sweetheart, leave Enj alone, he’ll reconcile his feelings when he’s ready.” 

“I’m only asking,” Jehan pouts. He helps Enjolras recollect the papers that spilled everywhere. “Sorry,” he says. “You know when my brain-to-mouth filter kind of disappears? That’s what that was. I shouldn’t have asked.” 

“It’s fine,” Enjolras says gruffly. He shoves the file into his bag. 

Jehan bumps his knuckles against Enjolras’s arm. “Good luck.” He turns to leave. 

Enjolras watches him go, confused, and calls, “With what?” 

He doesn’t get an answer. 

 

+

 

He finally works up the nerve to call Grantaire on the first day of the fourth week of them not speaking. 

Grantaire picks up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hello?” 

It’s raining, typical for November evenings. Enjolras watches water stream down the glass of his window. He picks at a scabbing cat scratch on his shoulder. 

“Hello?” Grantaire says again. Enjolras realizes he doesn’t know it’s him. 

“It’s Enjolras,” he says. 

Grantaire is quiet for a long moment. Then, “Oh.” 

“I just wanted to say—” He stops. 

He means to say,  _ I’m sorry I let you walk out _ or  _ I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner or faster _ or  _ I’m sorry you think I hate you because of this _ . Instead he says, “Helios misses you.” 

Another long, painfully quiet moment. 

He says, “So you should. Come visit him.” 

Silence. 

“We’re home all day tomorrow. Stop by whenever. If you want.” 

He waits for Grantaire to hang up, which he does without saying anything. 

 

+

 

At eight o’clock the next night, the rainstorm is still raging, and there is a knock at Enjolras’s door. 

He scrambles to answer it. He’s spent the whole day waiting, and wondering, and worrying that Grantaire wouldn’t show up. And why should he? Enjolras didn’t exactly give him a real reason to. None of his intended apologies made it out into the open. What does Grantaire have to gain by accepting the weak invitation, the stunted olive branch? 

But Grantaire is standing on Enjolras’s welcome mat, soaked to the bone and hunched down like he’s already lost a fight they haven’t had. Enjolras is horrendously happy to see him. 

“You came,” he says. 

Grantaire nods. “I miss Helios, too.” 

Enjolras says, “I missed you, actually. Not Heely.” 

Grantaire looks up sharply. 

He pushes on. “I mean, Heely missed you too, but. When I called, it. It was me. I wanted to see you.”

“Oh.” 

“Because, um, I screwed up. I shouldn’t have—” He laughs nervously. Grantaire’s eyes are dark and confused and Enjolras’s heart is out of control in his chest. “I shouldn’t have let you leave thinking I was mad at you.” 

“Oh,” Grantaire says again, and then a shiver wracks his body. Enjolras realizes he’s still drenched, and not in his apartment. Both are a problem. 

Enjolras steps aside and Grantaire steps inside and suddenly, they’re very close. Their eyes are level with each other, as are their noses, and their mouths. The door swings shut. Enjolras watches a raindrop slide from Grantaire’s hair down his temple, and then his neck. 

“Do you more than like me?” Enjolras asks quietly. He watches Grantaire’s throat bob. Goosebumps rise all over his damp neck. 

“Yes,” Grantaire says hoarsely. “Way more.” 

Enjolras nods. “Okay. Can I kiss you?” 

The startled look on Grantaire’s face shocks Enjolras’s heart right up into his throat. Grantaire says, “What?” His eyes are wide, eyelashes long and dark. Some of his wet hair has escaped the beanie. Enjolras wants to brush it back from his forehead. 

“Can I kiss you?” he repeats, softer. His hands are shaking. “I want to, but I won’t, if you don’t.” 

Grantaire shakes his head slowly, mouth parted. He doesn’t say no, though. He breathes out, “You’re incredible.” 

Enjolras smiles weakly. “That’s not an answer.” 

“ _ Yes.” _ Grantaire leans in and kisses him. 

The first thing Enjolras notices is that Grantaire’s mouth is cold. The second thing he notices is that his hands are on Grantaire’s waist, which is also cold. The third thing he notices is that he wanted to kiss Grantaire a lot more than he thought he did, because the whole front of his shirt is now wet where he’s pressed against Grantaire, and his heartbeat is thumping in his ears, and they have to stop kissing for a moment because Enjolras can’t stop smiling. 

“I more than like you, too,” Enjolras tells Grantaire. 

“Oh,” Grantaire says, grinning. “Sorry, I’m only here for the cat.”

Enjolras shoves him away and then pulls him back in for another kiss. Grantaire goes willingly, laughing, and his cold hands brush through Enjolras’s hair. 

They kiss in the hallway for a little longer. Then another shiver runs through Grantaire and Enjolras shoves him in the direction of the bathroom and towels, and they keep smiling at each other and Enjolras keeps putting his fingertips to his lips because  _ he kissed Grantaire—  _

He falls onto the couch while waiting for Grantaire to come out of the bathroom. Agatha and Heely curl up on either side of him. They share a look that probably means something in cat, and Enjolras pets them between their ears. 

“Well,” he says, and that’s that. 

 

+

 

“—also beware of Dragon, she usually doesn’t like new people—”

“Okay—”

“—and Piccolo will sit on you right off the bat, he’s a nuisance—”

“That’s fine—”

“—Nicky is probably somewhere in my underwear drawer, he might take a while to come out, but he will, eventually—”

“Grantaire—”

“—and then there’s Princess, but she’s sweet, you’ll love her. She’ll love you. I hope. She better. They all better, because—”

“Taire.” 

“—I mean I guess it’s not a  _ huge _ deal, but it would make things easier—”

Enjolras hooks his fingers in the collar of Grantaire’s shirt and tugs until they’re nose to nose. Grantaire’s eyes are wide and frantic, inches from Enjolras’s. “Relax,” Enjolras whispers fondly. “Why are you so worked up over me meeting your cats?” 

“Uhm.” Grantaire frowns slightly. His hands twist in Enjolras’s shirt. “Because they’re kind of my only family and I need you guys to get along.” 

Sympathy and sadness well up in Enjolras uncontrollably. He smooths his palm around to the back of Grantaire’s neck. He bumps their noses together. “It’ll be fine,” he whispers. 

Grantaire nods. He leans in for a kiss and pulls away at the last second. “Just so you know, I  _ will _ choose the cats over you.” 

Enjolras pushes him away in mock disgust. “Let’s get this over with, then.” They’ve been standing outside Grantaire’s apartment for almost ten minutes, and if they don’t go in now they probably never will. 

The door swings open. Grantaire leads the way inside. Enjolras feels a weird sense of dread, like he’s about to fail a test. He shuffles down the short hallway after Grantaire, who flicks on a few lights as he goes. 

All four cats are curled up on the couch. Enjolras is vibrantly reminded of stereotypical parents waiting for their stereotypical teenaged child to return home, stereotypically, past curfew.

“Well,” Enjolras says. 

“Here we go,” Grantaire says. 

“Kiss for good luck?” 

Grantaire leans over and bites his shoulder. “Go get ‘em, tiger.” 

Enjolras shoots him a smile, and Grantaire kisses him for real, and the cats don’t bite him or hiss, and he gets a few good pets in with them all. Grantaire seems relieved that Enjolras wasn’t immediately rejected. 

“I can stay, then?” Enjolras asks. 

They’re in the kitchen. Grantaire has Enjolras pushed against a counter. Their hands are fisted in each other’s shirts. Their smiles interrupt their kiss. 

“Of course,” Grantaire says. “I’m not letting you  _ leave _ . It’s bad manners.” 

 

+

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://ronansracingheart.tumblr.com/) come talk to me.


End file.
